17 To Death
by ShuttupMalfoy
Summary: Death Eater duty calls again. After a dark family ritual followed by an encounter with Death himself, Draco Malfoy gets transported to the age of the Marauders, and discovers much about his parents' past, while his girlfriend follows him back in time to ensure that he has a future...
1. Chapter 1:The Nightmare Before Christmas

___**Note: This is the greatly delayed threequel to my two previous stories, The Best of Both Worlds and The Time of Your Life. **_

_To Dwayna, who inadvertently made all of this possible, to Anja, without whom Tom never would have had his second chance, to Draco, Snape and, last but not least, to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, the worst parents anyone could have… _

* * *

There was joyful laughter ringing in the sunny garden. A house stood amidst it, a glorious structure of cold white marble so unfitting the colorful summer landscape that surrounded it. It was a dazzling view; every shade of it seemed to be scintillating.

In the middle of the scene, a woman in a purple dress popped out of nowhere and scurried over to the house, her eyes intently focused on the roof. The man that appeared next to her a moment later looked up to the roof as well and drew his fingers through his hair in worry.

The reason for him to seem so troubled was, apparently, the boy that fearlessly dashed to and fro across the roof, laughing, squeaking, and shouting festively in the man's direction:

'Dad! Dad!' he boasted, beaming. 'Look! Look what I can do!'

The man on the ground forced a smile at the boy and swallowed hard.

'That's lovely, Scorps,' the father blurted out, 'now if you'd please let me get you down from there –'

'But I haven't done anything yet, Dad!' the child about the age of eight protested. 'You're not paying attention!'

'That's it,' the man turned quietly to the woman in the purple dress, 'I'm apparating over to fetch him.'

But before he'd done anything to stop him, the boy he called Scorps sprang forth, sprinted madly to the marble brim of the roof and flung himself happily over the edge.

His father failed to stifle his scream as he watched the child fall and, just as he disappeared and reappeared in panic on the rooftop a fatal painful second late, he heard a cheerful voice behind his back that nearly made him jump and fall himself:

'Dad! Dad! Look! Look what I can do!'

The father turned around and stared at his glowing son in disapproval.

'Yes, that was great, Scorps,' he muttered grimly, in the voice of any parent who had, for the past three seconds, thought he was about to witness the death of his child. 'Now be so kind and never do it again, and this time try harder than the past ten times, alright?'

The boy lowered his blond head, looking gloomy and disappointed.

'I already did it, didn't I?' he mumbled.

'Yes, you did. And you did it splendidly, Scorps. But, last time I checked, you still couldn't fly. So, for the sake of your safety, we're getting down, right now. No more stunts for you today, do you understand?'

Scorps blinked in discouragement at his father and sighed.

'Yes, Father.'

His father hesitated. Something in the way the kid had said that struck a nerve. It reminded him terribly of the way he himself would say it to his father when he'd been a child. He still remembered how it ached, doing all you could to earn your father's pride, but receiving nothing but scorn.

"And now I'm the bad parent," he sighed mentally to himself. "Even though I swore to myself not to be. I can't help it with this kid, I just never seem to know what to do with him. I can never find the right approach. His mother, now, _she_ always knows. She has a way with him. Much like she has a way with me…"

As the man led the reluctant boy through the garden to have a talk with his mother, he sighed worriedly again, trying not to think of the guilt her soft stare would make him experience. He shouldn't be so harsh with Scorps, he knew. But he was just scared, scared for his safety, all the time, for reasons beyond his understanding…

'You know, you worry too much,' the dark-haired woman in the purple dress spoke to her husband meekly as he and Scorps approached. 'He's just fooling around. We all did when we were young. Don't be –'

'– so hard on him, I know,' the man smiled sadly at her.

Unexpectedly, he felt a sudden suffocating rush of unrest. In the next heartbeat, a brief thought rushed through his mind unnoticed: he had never seen his wife wear purple before. 'I'm sorry, really. I'll try harder to restrain myself.'

'You'd better, darling,' his wife placed a hand on his shoulder. 'We have to make this work, you know.'

All of a sudden, the garden grew cold and foreign. This time, the man couldn't help but notice something was wrong. Then again, perhaps it was just age and trouble getting to him…

'We will,' he said to the woman unconvincingly. 'I just… haven't been myself lately. Honestly, if it weren't for you… I just don't know what I'd do, mudblood.'

The woman turned her face to him slowly. A strange piercing wind had started howling shrilly in the darkening garden. The man looked into the woman's eyes, in which he read a silent question.

'Mudblood?' she echoed blankly, her brow furrowing. 'What do you mean?'

The man blinked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. He stared into a pair of unfamiliar blue eyes. He ventured to ask, "Who are you", but the icy wind froze the words in his throat.

Then, a wave of terror shook his waning figure.

'No… it can't be…' he uttered in desperate denial, while his wife's eyes widened in puzzlement; but this was now happening at a great distance. He was far away, in a wind-whirl of autumn leaves brimmed with frost threatening to bury him in the hostile ground, and in his heart he tried to flee, but there was nothing there but marble walls, narrowing, encompassing, caving in…

Slowly, from pure white, everything faded to utter blackness. Then, a scream shook the man's body and echoed through his bones he nearly heard clatter.

The scream rescued him. It was his own.

**X X X**

Draco Malfoy woke up with a start. He immediately realized this couldn't be any good. All bad things started with him waking up.

'Mudblood… mudblood,' he felt frantically about the pillow. Shaking, he tried to open his eyes, fearing what he might set sights on.

'Bad dream. Not real,' a voice flew over to him. 'Come here… It's alright.'

The voice blazed through his synapses, soft and resuscitating, and he obeyed the call on instinct. Two pale hands closed gently around his face and pulled him back into reality. Draco saw his girlfriend smiling soothingly at him, and he managed a shaky smile in return.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. 'Sorry, mudblood, I just…'

'It's alright,' Wera repeated, pressing her face to his. 'I'm here, and so are you. It's okay.'

'This is getting embarrassing,' Draco confessed. 'Every night… trouble sleeping…'

'We take turns,' the young woman replied softly. 'I was like that last month, remember?'

Draco didn't respond, just went on staring at her in relief, still amazed at her unmatched ability to beam at him in this quiet, demure way, to turn his world the right way around with a single word, a single touch, a single gesture. After two years spent together, he was still no less amazed than he was on day one of their relationship. Wera Lynson, the mudblood girl he'd got off on both wrong feet with all those precious moments ago, the most inappropriate catch for a spoiled pureblood brat – and yet a surprisingly good match for the emotional wreck he was whenever nobody was looking... Wera Lynson… the girl who shared all of his nightmares.

That is, except this one.

His lips moved, only to utter no sound. Wera held him closer and he sank into a blissful oblivion of the visions tormenting him these days. He loved that silent mutual understanding the two of them had. Wera rarely ever asked him questions. She knew most of the answers anyway, and she could sense when he didn't feel like talking.

'D'you feel like getting breakfast?' she changed the subject mildly.

'Hmm?' Draco was still trying to shake off the poisonous thought of the nightmare. It wasn't the first time he was having it. These days there was barely a night that passed without him dreaming that he was married to a woman he'd never known, that he had a son with her he called Scorps who had the terrifying talent to travel back in time (only a few seconds, yes, but nevertheless long enough to scare his father half to death), and –

'I asked if you were hungry,' Wera's voice brought him down to earth in an instant.

No, he mustn't tell her. It wasn't as if it was a problem she had to worry about. This had nothing to do with last year's time travel accident. That's right. It had to be the leftovers of his paranoia from that time his parents had decided to arrange him to marry Astoria Greengrass. But that was behind him now.

'No, no,' he muttered back with rising certainty, 'I'm alright, really.'

Wera raised an eyebrow and the edges of her lips trembled.

'I can tell,' she remarked meekly, 'given that your answer didn't really match my question.'

Draco drew a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the bad dream once and for all.

'I mean, sure,' he hurried to correct himself, 'I'm starving. And don't look at me like that,' he added under the weight of his girlfriend's measuring stare, 'I assure you I am perfectly fine… Ow!'

Wera added another raised eyebrow to the first one. Her eyes automatically darted towards the young man's arm tangled in the sheets. A flush of red was quickly spreading across it.

Draco rubbed the Mark with a crooked smile and shrugged.

'Father's calling,' he explained. 'Either way, we're going downstairs.'

Wera sighed at the statement and helped her boyfriend out of bed. 'Your dad has a unique way of saying good morning.'

'I'm afraid it's more than "good morning," Draco said, the wretched smile still twitching on his face. 'This time he's putting _feeling_ into it.'

The two of them found Lucius in the dining hall as always, halfway through his liquid breakfast. Narcissa was there too, shuffling about the dining table adjusting glasses and cutlery with magic, occasionally eyeing her husband's liquor with a mixture of disapproval and envy. Still, she brightened up when she saw Draco approach.

'Morning, dear,' she greeted, assuming an expectant position beside her chair. 'Breakfast's ready. Hurry up, take a seat, both of you!'

Draco nodded in response and pulled up a chair for his girlfriend. No sooner had he taken his seat than the verbal attack he had expected began:

'We need to talk,' Lucius grunted over his glass of mysterious liquor. 'Listen closely –'

'Not now, darling,' fired Narcissa, casting a warning stare his way. 'Not in front of our _guest_.'

Lucius murmured something to himself, but did not utter another word out loud. After exchanging brief glances with his wife, he went on staring sourly into his glass. Underneath the table, Draco placed his hand upon Wera's, and she allowed herself a pale smile in return. Then, breakfast began.

The young couple ate in silent understanding. By now, they were both accustomed to the Malfoy family law. In Malfoy Manor, there were always so many things left unspoken. Life in the Malfoy family was much like a theatre play, and every member of the cast was obliged to play their part. Backstage, everyone lived in their own world, but out there, while the show went on, there were _rules_. Always be polite, even when you aren't being kind. Always be on time for breakfast. Never slurp at the table. Never speak openly on difficult matters, unless at a time of crisis. Always be sharp dressed for the Christmas dinner. Never, ever say everything you think. And, of course, always follow the rules. If you follow the rules, you're part of the family. If you're part of the family, you follow the rules.

Wera was now part of the family, after a two-year-long, hard-won battle for the approval of Draco's parents. Almost won. They were still wary around her, their scrutinizing stares still followed her on a regular basis. It was a test she had to pass daily if she wanted to be with a boy that bore the Malfoy surname. Since the two of them had started dating, she was obliged – invited, that is – to live at Malfoy Manor, to eat the Malfoy family food, sleep in a Malfoy family bed and abide by the Malfoy family rules. Of course, she only had to do it if she wanted to be part of the family. If she didn't, someone else would take her place in the family… next to Draco.

'So, Draco, dear,' Narcissa began with one of her less fake smiles, 'I trust things with you and your lady are going well? Are we expecting to expect anytime soon?'

Draco's hand clasped more firmly around Wera's. He was well prepared for the question. He'd been playing this game for far longer than his lady.

'We don't feel quite ready for it yet, Mother,' he replied promptly.

Narcissa's smile became a thin line. 'One of you rather than the other, surely?'

Ah, Draco thought. A nasty move.

'What can I say, Mother; girls mature faster than boys.'

"You've got to admire the way he slithers out of every tight spot," Narcissa thought. "I just can't catch him unprepared. He's all grown up, my lovely little boy."

'Still,' she refused to surrender, 'I sense a far lesser degree of hesitation when it comes to other decisions.'

'Certainly, Mother. She is the love of my life, after all. I have no doubts about this.'

A flash of concern flickered through Narcissa's eyes. It wasn't a good omen for Malfoys to speak of love at the table. Her worry only lasted a moment; a blink of an eye later, she beamed at Draco's face and said:

'In this case, I trust you to get her the best Christmas present there is, dear.'

"Oh, Merlin," Draco thought in exasperation. "She'd be happy to have me marry anyone, so long as the candidate looks good enough in a dress. I bet she'll try the old "ring under the pillow" trick again. Why does she want to rush my proposal so badly? Wizards know I want to marry Wera. But –'

…but he could tell by Wera's deliberate lack of reaction at the table, by the expression that wasn't written on her face that she wasn't ready to say "yes" to him. And how could she? When you said "yes" to a Malfoy, you said "yes" to the whole family. You agreed to spend your life honoring all of their traditions, living up to all of their expectations, bearing with all of their quirks…

'A-hem,' Lucius coughed pointedly to draw the attention away from the delicate subject, 'can we not discuss this now, darling? May I remind you we need to talk. _Now_.'

After another brief exchange of ambiguous glances, Narcissa nodded to her husband and turned to Wera:

'I'm sorry, dear, could you just excuse us for a moment? I'll send Draco upstairs as soon as we're done.'

Before Mrs Malfoy had finished her sentence, Wera was already standing up.

'Of course, she smiled in response, leaving her seat. 'I'll leave you three to talk in private.'

…and yes, there was the other thing with the Malfoys. Possibly the main reason why the "we" in "we need to talk" would never include anyone from outside the family. The snake and the skull. The Mark problem. The one job they couldn't resign from.

It wasn't that difficult to marry a Malfoy, but who wouldn't think twice about marrying a Death Eater?

When the door closed behind Wera, Draco was left by himself in the cold dining hall in the seat opposite his parents. Lucius put his drink aside – a certain sign a serious problem had arisen.

'Yes?' Draco urged tensely.

'It's the Lord,' Lucius muttered.

'I know. Just get to the point, will you?'

His father didn't even bother to scold him for using a disrespectful tone. 'There's a new task,' Malfoy Sr replied hollowly. 'Big one. No mistakes allowed. And it's due tonight.'

'Tonight?' Draco raised an eyebrow. 'On Christmas Eve?'

'Yes,' Lucius hissed in response, 'on Christmas Eve. We do this one right and things might get better. We fail… and we lose our lives.'

Draco blinked at the statement, inspecting his soul for a flicker of emotion, waiting for his father's words to strike a nerve. It didn't happen. Of course not. He was used to this by now. He knew his father was just trying to talk him into doing whatever new task the Dark Lord had thought up for them. Things wouldn't get better; they never did. Draco had long since stopped hoping for things to get better, and perhaps this made it all easier to bear. Terror became less terrifying if you expected it at all times. Deep down, he was morbidly convinced nothing would change. Almighty Mr Potter could try as hard as he could, but the Dark Lord would always find a way to keep on lurking in the shadows. Being a Death Eater was a lifelong career. By now, it was a way of life.

But Wera wasn't used to this way of life, and Draco knew she never really would be. All of her attempts to free him from his service to the Lord had been in vain, and Draco feared his frightful occupation would eventually break them up. With him, it was different – he had no choice, – but who would willingly condemn themselves to such a nightmare of a life? The Dark Lord didn't rest, and neither did his servants. You couldn't just ask him to give you a week off for the Christmas holidays. Given that, how could Wera ever agree to marry Malfoy Jr? Draco already pictured a dreadfully probable wedding scenario: "Do you agree to take this woman –" "Hold on, hold on, my Mark's burning. Sorry, baby, I've gotta go." And if they were to have children…

This was no life to live. It was a nightmare.

'Draco, are you even listening to us?' his mother scolded him through the blur of cheerless visions invading his head.

'Of course,' Draco replied automatically.

'We have to do this as a family, sweetheart,' Narcissa made a desperate attempt to reach him. 'Together. Be reasonable and –'

'I thought you mentioned something about the perfect Christmas gift for Wera,' Draco muttered. 'Wonder how that'll work out if we don't return for Chris–'

'Enough!' snarled his father, standing up with a start. Draco could see the mad glint in his eye kicking in again. 'Is this all you care about, boy? Do you think you're the only one going through this?'

Instinctively, Draco stepped back. He felt somewhat defeated, since he'd been trying for too long now to convince himself that the good parent/bad parent strategy didn't work on him anymore. On the other hand, Lucius had a point: the entire family suffered from the situation. Draco had no right to complain. A protest presented along the lines of "But being a Death Eater is ruining my relationship" would come out petty and childish in these circumstances. He lowered his head in submission.

'No, Father.'

Eyes blazing, Lucius slumped back into his chair.

'Good. That's the way I want you. Will you do the bloody task or not?'

'Yes, Father.'

"Do you even care, Father? My heart aches for a child I've only ever dreamed of. If I had condemned _my_ son to such a fate –"

'And you won't make it any more difficult than it already is?'

'What's the task?' Draco sighed.

Several seconds of ardent fumbling followed. Lucius and Narcissa simultaneously drew out their wands, pronounced a few muffled words each and caused a heavy battered book to appear onto the surface of the dining table. Its shabby binding made it look out of place on the pristine satin tablecloth. It probably wouldn't fit in with the books of the family's library section, next to the lustrous leather-bound volumes polished on a regular basis. Involuntarily, Draco raised an eyebrow.

'Do the Deathly Hallows ring a bell to you?' Lucuis began mysteriously.

Oh no, Draco froze. Anything but those.

'Very funny,' he retorted grimly. 'What's this all about?'

He tried in vain to draw his gaze away from his father's finger drumming nervously on the ragged book's cover. Lucius frowned.

'We are to collect an object for the Dark Lord,' he explained in a voice cold enough to freeze fire, 'an object originating from the very same source as that of the Hallows.'

'Fairytales?' Draco ventured.

'Fairytales contain more truth than we would like them to,' Narcissa cut in unexpectedly, piercing her son with a stare. 'Death is the one recurring element of fairytales that indisputably reigns over the real world.'

At her startling statement, Draco hurried to take another step back. He didn't like his mother's carried away voice. Suddenly, both of his parents had fixed frightfully concentrated glares upon him, which in turn made him shudder. Sometimes, he would get the feeling the Malfoy family left way too many things unspoken. His parents kept all these secrets from him until they eventually blew up in his face. We have to improve our communication, Draco thought morbidly.

'What are you trying to say?' he uttered in the cold morning light of the dining hall.

Clearly, sharing was not a family skill. Instead of responding, Lucius slid the book over to his son across the table.

'Take a closer look,' he urged.

Draco took the dusty book in his hands and examined it with caution.

'It's an old Potions textbook,' he concluded, almost with relief.

'There's more to it than that. Open it.'

Fumbling through the thinned pages, Draco's fingers found a sheet of paper yellowed with time, possibly having spent years pressed into the old textbook. It wasn't a Potions essay; it was a grubby piece of parchment densely filled with notes through and through, in a vaguely familiar handwriting. At the top of the page there was a brief sketch of a dark cloaked figure whose face the artist had chosen not to reveal. In one hand, the figure held a scythe; in the other – a long thin blade, possibly a rapier. Beneath it, in sharp bolded letters, a title to the improvised article was scrawled.

"_The Sword of Death_," Draco read stiffly, trying not to articulate the terror rising in his voice.

He ventured to look around for a sign of humor in the scene, but met nothing but condensed tension carved on his parents' somber faces. Alas, the Malfoys had never had a fondness for practical jokes within the family circle. They appeared dead serious…

…and soon, Draco couldn't help but add mentally, they very well may be just dead.

A dark haze clouded his vision; his knees felt weak. The parchment in his hand started shaking.

'The sword of Death,' Lucius recited after what he believed to have been an appropriate pause, 'is, in many ways, the most desirable weapon ever forged. It is known to annihilate life at a single touch of its blade, it is virtually indestructible, and whoever wields it is immune to death or harm of all sorts. In other words, it would make any mortal man invincible. With such a weapon, one could… rule… the world…'

'I see,' Draco uttered blankly, struggling to get his brain to shut down.

"…_for whoever had the sword of Death resides outside of space and time, on a plain beyond life and death_," the parchment read solemnly. "_While in one's possession, it protects its owner from all harm. It has the power to vanquish anyone and anything, including Death himself. It is –_"

Draco looked up at his parents again. He didn't see a point in reading any further. The rest of the page was mostly occupied by tables and charts in unreadable runes, describing an ancient ritual of some sort.

'Why can't the Dark Lord fetch this weapon himself?' he mumbled, the words fleeing from his mouth in panic.

Narcissa placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. It didn't soothe him; it just gave him chills.

'He can't,' she explained to him in a hollow voice. 'The spell requires young blood, you see… and he can hardly pass as young, the Lord –'

'– and without the ritual performed properly we cannot hope to get to the sword,' Lucius added as though he had been hypnotized.

'But why us, Father?' Draco uttered weakly. He couldn't bear to look at his parents now. Hope was leaving his body in waves like a warm breath in a chilly room, and horror was slowly setting in its place.

'Because we're the only ones left, Draco. And we have debts to pay. There is no other way.'

'Don't worry,' Narcissa beseeched, 'we know what we're doing, sweetheart. We'll keep you safe.'

Draco had frozen on the spot like a statue, staring unseeingly into the paper in his hands. His blood was hurriedly withdrawing from his fingers.

His blood. Young blood. The blood that tied him to the curse of his family. The blood he had to keep spilling in its name…

'You'll do it, right?' Lucius insisted.

'Just this one, sweetheart, and it'll all be fine,' whispered Narcissa.

They waited in vain for a reaction. Their son was pale, still and silent.

'Um… why don't you run upstairs to your girl, dear?' Draco's mother suggested, voice trembling. 'So – so you can… have a word…'

'Yes, Mother.'

When your mind hits a brick wall, the only thing it can process is orders. Without another word, Draco strode out the dining hall and up the main staircase. His numb fingers let the parchment fall behind.

The light in Wera's eyes went out when he entered his room on the upper floor. She was sitting at the edge of the bed, a portrait of pale, melancholic beauty.

'You look like you've become a ghost,' she said when she saw him. Draco met her gaze and the tears he'd been suppressing started rising.

'You know,' he replied, looking about the room like a lost child, and went over huddled next to his girlfriend, trembling and restless. 'You always know.'

Wera wrapped her arms around him, providing a shoulder for him to rest his head on. 'Another task?'

'Yes,' Draco sighed. 'They never end.'

'How bad is it?' the girl inquired.

'It's been worse,' he lied promptly. 'I'm afraid you'll have to watch over the manor tonight. We have to leave this evening, all three of us.'

'I understand,' Wera said with a sad little smile. 'I know what "we" means between the walls of this manor.'

'Look,' Draco began tensely, clutching her hand, 'you know the only "we" that I'd like to be part of is the one that involves you. If I had a choice –'

He didn't finish. As different as Wera was from him, he could read her like an open book – and sometimes he thought it was the saddest book he'd ever read.

'You're scared,' Wera commented after a pensive pause. 'Don't be. I'm sure you'll be fine. I have faith in you.'

'Why?' Draco made a vain attempt to smile. 'I'm not strong. I'm not brave. I –'

'But you always survive,' the girl reminded him fondly. 'You always find a way around every situation. You're slippery, you know. It must be in your blood. It's really hard to outtrick a Malfoy. You're like an improved version of Tom Sawyer, you are…'

'Who?' Draco asked absently, relieved to talk about something other than the mission from the Dark Lord. Wera responded with a small embarrassed laugh.

'Oh, never mind… It's another one of those muggle references you can't stand. There's this book I read as a child, and the main character… I just think you share some similarities.'

'Tom Sawyer,' Draco repeated, if only just to chase the thought of the task away. 'Sounds awfully muggle.'

'It does,' the girl agreed. 'He's quite the character, though.'

'I'll never really figure you out, mudblood,' Draco said affectionately, and desperately wished never to leave the edge of the bed.

'You'll have a lifetime to try,' Wera smiled.

'Yeah.' Chills were now running down Draco's back. Fear was returning, relentless and powerful. What if he never saw her again?

'I'll have to go,' he said before his willpower left him.

'Will you be back for Christmas?'

"Look at her," Draco thought, "looking up at me in expectation. She truly cares, she truly understands. Remember her like this. Cherish this memory."

'Of course,' he assured her, although his entire body testified against this statement. 'Don't worry, mudblood.'

He stood up, leaned towards her, and gave her a kiss – a frail, sad little kiss that lasted a lifetime too little and a moment too long. Not a kiss goodbye, but a kiss farewell.

'Be safe,' Wera wished, pretending not to have noticed his struggle. 'Knock 'em dead, baby!'

Draco smiled over his shoulder and left the room. He cried all the way down the stairs, praying his girlfriend wouldn't follow. By the end of the staircase, he was cold and unreadable as a marble statue again.

'I'm ready,' he announced to his parents.

The Malfoys didn't waste a second more. Neither of them talked about it; neither of them asked questions. This was the only way they approached a problem. Get down to business instead of crying about it… for if you started crying, chances were you'd never stop.

And there was no point in crying now. It was a do-or-die situation. They were out to get the sword of Death… to try to trick the one person least likely to trick in the universe. Doing this task was certain death – which would be even more certain if they refused to do it. But there, in that small moment between the past and the future, they were alive, and they would struggle to keep themselves that way until the very end…

Draco was thinking intensely, watching his parents silently prepare and begin the ritual as he extended his right arm towards them for a brief Sectumsempra – to pay the toll of young blood. He thought of Wera, of his family, of his nightmare of a life… and as bad as it looked right now, he painfully realized he still wanted to live it. He was alive, breathing, _being_, he had discovered happiness just two years ago, and he didn't want to die now. He didn't want to fear death day after day; he wanted to give himself and Wera the normal life neither of them had ever had, to put an end to the nightmare – but he wasn't strong enough, he wasn't brave enough…

'Over the circle, sweetheart,' he heard his mother call from afar. He stretched his bleeding arm forth and watched the blood drip down his fingers, transfixed. Was this really what the young blood was meant for? To waste away?

Through the encompassing blur, he felt his mother hold his scarlet hand. His father clutched his Marked arm on his left.

'Remember not to let go,' Lucius' voice echoed. 'It isn't safe. You're new to this. Hold on to us.'

That's right, don't leave anything to Draco. He can't do anything right… Don't let him make his own choices in life because he'll just make a mess of it…

'Watch your step,' Lucius warned sharply, making his son tremble. Draco looked down upon the small sound from below. His foot had kicked the fallen parchment on the floor. Vaguely aware, he gave it a look…

Sometimes a look is all it takes. Sometimes, the words crept into your head uninvited.

They were out to steal the sword of Death. The ultimate relic. The perfect weapon. The blade powerful enough to destroy anyone… even Death…

…and if it could kill Death…

A rush of life passed through Draco's veins, the way it always did when he was at the edge of it, in the moments when his mind was cold and crystal clear. It was in such moments that epiphanies came flowing in. when sanity collapses, the mind expects orders. When reason fails to give them, instinct provides.

"You can put an end to this, Draco," his instinct spoke to him, in a voice clear as blood.

"That is, unless you chicken out like you normally do."

"This may be your only chance to turn it all around."

"If you fail, you'll die, but no more than you will if you don't try."

"You've got nothing to lose. So don't be a loser."

"Put an end to this, Draco Malfoy."

Arm still bleeding, Draco was pulled into the ritual circle. His parents were addressing him with words he could not hear. He was deaf to any instructions but the ones in his head. The voice of his subconscious went on, taking charge since the conscience had resigned:

"You can pull it off," it said.

"You can steal the sword of Death."

And why not, a moment of hopeful catatonic cheer came over him through the relentless clutch of panic. He had nothing to lose besides his pathetic excuse for a life. Why not give it a shot anyway? Why not put an end to the nightmare? His father would often say his son was good for nothing but stealing…

"She believes in you. She would _want_ you to do it."

Yielding to his subconscious' manipulative approach, Draco was overwhelmed by a wave of morbid confidence. It erupted like a spell inside him, blowing away the horror, leaving nothing but ashes and clarity. In his parents' hands, his fists clenched. His eyes flung open. He took a breath, his mind awaiting orders.

The spell of the ritual kicked in. A golden streak brimmed the circle on the dining hall floor. Narcissa clung closer to her son in the border of the ring. The streak evolved into a chilling wind-whirl that started weaving in a web around the three of them, a blizzard just like the one in Draco's nightmares…

'I love you, dear,' Narcissa whispered, squeezing her son's hand. It didn't react, just pumped out some more blood.

Draco didn't hear these words. He was barely seeing the magical blizzard fiercely entangling him and his parents. "I love you" was not an order, it wasn't what he needed to hear right now. Right now, he needed to be told what to do.

'Hold on,' Lucius boomed, but his voice was muffled by the voice in Draco's head. This wasn't the right order.

The wind-whirl was getting wilder and wilder. It enveloped the Malfoys in complete darkness. Draco couldn't hope to see or hear a thing: the sudden explosion of silence was deafening. At last, he was left all alone with the voice inside his head.

And it commanded:

"Kill the Dark Lord."

Just then the spell rushed into his body like a hurricane. It passed through him and his parents as though they were paper dolls. Screams echoed in the omnipotent darkness. The spell was circling, sniffing, looking for blood – young blood…

The air gradually started thinning. The pressure for the lungs was unbearable. Draco took a breath deprived of air. He felt as though he was slowly drowning. Silence was beating heavily against his eardrums.

"What now?" he asked himself without a sound.

"Let go," he answered. And then, time stopped.

For a shard of a moment, everything was dark, still and peaceful. Draco's hand gently slipped out of his mother's. His other hand tried to follow, but Lucius was clutching it too tight. Draco closed his eyes and sank his nails into his father's knuckles.

It took him an eternity to break free from the grip. Finally, he flexed his aching fingers in the nothingness.

The sands of time flooded his body, drowning out all memory of sound. The wind-whirl caught him in a steel embrace and shot him through the fabric of the universe.

Then, time poured freely back into the world.

But Draco Malfoy was no longer in it.


	2. Chapter 2: A Game Of Chess

The breath he next took was more of a scream let out backwards. It filled his lungs with the agony of being alive, which was, with its countless painful signals, still infinitely pleasurable next to the numbness of death. His hands and elbows hit cold ground. Draco froze, crouched on all fours, fully alive, his heart pounding in his head in the middle of what appeared to be an endless dark corridor. Slowly, Draco managed to shake off the unpleasant disintegrating sensation – the trip had been a brief yet horrid touch of oblivion – and examined his surroundings. "Dark" didn't quite describe the place he had landed in. There was a black floor, black walls, a black ceiling that seemed a universe high; even the air was sparkling with an eerie black light. This was a place no mortal had set foot in – at least not while it was still twitching.

The fire brimming the ritual circle around Draco was cooling off to ice with a wheeze. Steam was rising all around him, glowing blue in the pitch-black atmosphere. Draco stood up and stepped out of the circle and into the darkness ahead. He felt the hair on the back of his head rise: the corridor stank of death. Death was all around, behind him, in front of him, above and underneath him – but within the small space provided by the molecules of his body his soul felt acutely alive. It was in these moments – whenever he was in danger, on the run or facing death – that he was really living, that he was Draco Malfoy stripped of all pretense, doubt or hesitation. And it wasn't too difficult to guess what Draco Malfoy would do in these circumstances.

Draco took a gulp of breath and started creeping forward. In the formal black attire he'd worn throughout breakfast he easily blended in with the innumerable dark shadows filling the corridor. They all seemed to evolve from under his feet… and wherever there are shadows, there must be light, Draco estimated. Blindly, moving on instinct rather than reason, Draco Malfoy started creeping towards the light.

It felt like he'd been walking for centuries through the spatious corridor framed by dusty stone bookshelves. Oddly enough, it was narrowing towards its end that seemed a lifetime away. At the bottom of the corridor, there was no more than a hint of light, so small and faint it was about as close as the horizon was to the sea shore. Slightly discouraged, Draco kept on sneaking forth, even though it was apparent he was all alone in this vast somber structure. Clearly, there wasn't a living soul around…

"That's right," Draco reminded himself grimly, "it's the dead ones you need to be worried about."

Chills ran down his back as the thought crossed his mind, for a voyage outside of the world of the living was not for the faint-hearted; and just when Draco was about to turn back for a good old-fashioned run for it, he saw the light.

It was incredibly pale, but it was there, beaming out of some sort of platform somewhere in the incalculable distance. Draco took an involuntary step towards the unachievable goal, towards a destination he could hope to reach if he spent the next six months walking… and, all of a sudden, he was standing right before it.

In the blink of an eye, the distance had shrunk. Draco wasn't the reflecting type and didn't get to wonder why this had happened. He wasn't fully aware of the gravity of the spell his parents had dragged him into. He wasn't educated enough to know that, in the afterlife dimension, time and space were just words to mark nothingness, and here and there could be one and the same place. All he knew was that he was suddenly faced with a monument of cold rough stone wrapped in a halo of soft light. There, in the center of the glow, like a long silver slice of darkness, lay a sword. Draco didn't have to see it to believe it: the magical field around the sword was so strong one could see it in full detail with their eyes closed. It drew Draco's hand closer like a magnet, the way death drew closer all things living. It was the sword of Death.

Taking a cautious closer look at it, Draco was surprised – and, admittedly, a little disappointed – to see that an object that felt so powerful could have such an ordinary appearance. There was not a single skull, not a single precious stone on the sword, not a single mystic rune engraved into the blade. It was little more than a long thin piece of metal, hardly a sword, rather a rapier. It gave off the vibe that it wasn't all there; that its full glory could not be perceived by the simple eyesight of a mortal creature.

Mesmerized, Draco held his hand over the handle and saw himself the way he never had before: a fragile, slimy, quivering mass of molecules, fragments of flesh stitched together by unstable organic bounds, each of them just a cut, strike or curse away from destruction… and, for a moment, he pictured what it would be like if he could rebuild himself, strengthen the bonds and live without ever having to fear death again: forever…

As temptingly as the weapon whispered in his skull, the part of Draco that had kept him alive through all of these years hesitated. No, his common sense warned, that will never be you. Only the Chosen One can get away with such a choice. No, Malfoy, you're not cut out for power. You're here to get the job done and scram…

Slipping out of the relic's trance, he looked about. No one seemed to be around watching, listening, preying – no one, apart from the sword. Draco could already feel the handle, emanating blistering cold; frost was quickly forming around his fingers. He could hear the universe holding its breath…

He held his breath too, kissed all reasonable arguments goodbye and reached for the sword.

The very next moment – if the word "moment" even stood for anything at a place like this – the weapon vanished from the surface of the platform, and a long, shimmering blade was gently driven to his throat.

Draco's eyes traced the length of the blade to the hand that held it and his entrails turned to ice.

Alas, some plans just aren't meant to work.

'Looking for this?' a voice boomed over Malfoy's head.

Draco produced a scream that came out all too organic in the lifeless silence of the corridor. He tried to back away, but horror had immobilized his body.

A tall cloaked figure was looming over him. It vaguely reminded of a dementor, radiating an air of destruction and despair so dense it made it almost impossible to breathe. Underneath a hood of shadows darker than black, the creature was looking down upon Draco through a pair of hollow eye sockets. If a masterpiece of a face could be constructed entirely of bones and dust, it was the face the figure had turned towards the captured thief. It wasn't a face you could shake before. It rendered your muscles too numb to even shiver.

'I– I–' Draco made a vain attempt to speak. The Reaper gently shifted his sword, causing the edge of the blade to twitch a hairline away from Draco's throat.

'Hmm?' Death urged.

'N-n–N-no,' the thief moaned helplessly. Tears started rolling down his cheeks. He had failed. All was lost now. How could he have thought, even for a second, that he could outdraw Death?

On the other hand, as horrid as this script was developing to be, something about it didn't seem quite right. For starters, the ruler of the underworld didn't appear to be gloating, nor did he strike as overly furious. If anything – to the extent Draco could read an expression on a skinless face – Death looked vaguely curious.

It was the tears, a long story short. The Reaper wasn't used to dealing with tears, at least not in the course of personal encounters. Most people were either too shocked or too dead to cry when they met him.

After a fictitious moment's hesitation, Death drew his sword aside.

'Stand up,' he commanded in a skull-blasting voice.

Draco rose shakily to his feet, still sobbing rather pathetically beside the platform.

'Wipe your nose in my cloak and you're dead,' said the Reaper in slight irritation.

'I'm s-s-sorry,' the thief mumbled desperately, shaking all over. 'I didn't – I never wanted to – I –'

'You're early,' Death finished. Draco looked up in sore-eyed puzzlement.

'I'm sorry?' he blurted out, this time as a question.

'You should be,' the Reaper agreed grimly. 'You've caused me a lot of trouble in the future, Draco Malfoy.'

Through the cloud of terror in his head, Draco's common sense made an encouraging observation: "Calm down, you idiot. You've been talking to Death for over a minute, and you're still alive."

"Keep talking."

'In the future?' he repeated, letting his survival instinct take the lead until he put together a decent escape plan. 'How come?'

Death, being an immortal omnipotent figure that reigned since the dawn of time and therefore communicated with humans mostly in corpse form, was only marginally familiar with the petty cunningness that lurked inside the human soul.

'Draco Malfoy,' the Reaper replied, 'the time traveller's father. We meet too early… way too early for you to know any of the problems your offspring has caused me through the years. I can see the past, present and future altogether, and the damage your son has done to each of them is inconceivable. And, as if that is not enough of a debt to pay, you just attempted to steal my sword…'

Draco's breath froze in his throat. So it was true! The nightmare had been real all along… he truly would have a son cursed with the gift to twist time without a timeturner, a gift that would draw the attention of Death himself…

'What do you know about him?' he blathered out, rather unthoughtfully, as he later came to realize. 'How will he –'

He couldn't finish because, in a fragment of time shorter than a moment, the Reaper clasped a bony hand around the collar of his shirt and lifted him ten feet above the floor.

'You are not in the position to ask questions,' Death said through, for want of a better option, gritted teeth. 'Scorpius Malfoy is not your concern. You'd best think about what _you_'ve done…'

'No!' Draco started writhing frantically above the ground. 'No – please… please don't kill me –'

'Oh, I won't,' Death promised ominously. 'I will ensure that you survive and suffer for years to come, Draco Malfoy. For your audacity you will pay the ultimate punishment. Your son will be obliterated from the course of time. He never will have existed… and I will enjoy watching you live with the thought that it was all your fault…'

'No! No! Please!' Draco whimpered desperately, twisting in vain in Death's relentless clutch. 'Don't hurt him! I never meant to steal your sword! I – I only wanted to b-borrow it to kill the Dark Lord!'

A shade of hesitation flickered through the Reaper's marble face. Ringing silence filled the emptiness the thief's screams had left in the corridor. Death's hand didn't waver, but he slightly loosened his grip.

'Tom Riddle,' he uttered distractedly after a moment's contemplation. 'My, does he have debts to pay…'

Draco seized the arisen opportunity the way a drowner would seize a lifejacket.

'Yes!' he confirmed madly. 'Yes, he does! I just – wanted to do the world a favor… I was going to return the sword, I swear…'

'Hmm,' Death muttered, consumed in his thoughts, while Draco was, quite literally, left hanging. 'Very well,' he conceded at last. He flexed his fingers, leaving the thief to slump painfully to the marble floor. 'I'll make you a deal, Draco Malfoy. If your intentions were truly as noble as you claim them to be, I will give you a chance to walk out of here, and swear not to lay a finger on your son. I will grant you a pass out of the underworld… if you accept the challenge I propose to all souls who are indebted to me.'

'I accept,' fired Draco, too terrified to weigh the pros and cons.

Death nodded and waved a pale hand in the air. Two frightfully carved stone chairs appeared on both sides of the platform. Its coarse surface trembled, changed and produced an ancient checkered slab.

'I usually welcome the problematic incomers,' the Reaper announced, pointing at the slab, 'with a friendly game of chess.'

Draco traced the bony index with his eyes and swallowed. As he did with most rash decisions in his life – and, come to think of it, they all were rash – he regretted having accepted Death's challenge so quickly. He'd be the first to admit he was far from brilliant at wizard chess. Truth be told, were he not so worried about his reputation, he'd be the first to admit intellectual activities were not his cup of tea. How stupid of him to agree right away! He could have bargained – that he was good at, – but now it was too late…

The Reaper coughed politely, nodding at the smaller chair. Draco staggered to his feet with what was left of his dignity and also cleared his throat, if only to cover up on his anxiety.

'Sit down,' Death invited cheerfully. Draco took his seat, shaking. He imagined his face was like an open book. Now, Death _was_ gloating.

'You'll be playing with the white figures,' the Reaper went on with ominous generosity. 'This,' he reached towards the ancient chessboard and gently tapped the king of the black army on the slab, 'is me. Do you see it?'

When he touched the little marble figure, it glowed bright blue for a brief moment. Draco noticed it held a tiny scythe in hand.

'What if I lose?' the young man muttered, and hurried to add: 'Hypothetically speaking, of course.'

Death looked up through his empty eye sockets and did something utterly terrifying: he smiled.

'If you lose,' he replied, touching an ivory pawn on Draco's side of the board, 'you're mine.'

The white chess piece shone alight in blue for a second, and Draco felt his heart twitch painfully when Death withdrew his finger. He tried to convince himself it was just his overstressed imagination. That delusion didn't last long, though: as the blue light went out, the white pawn had acquired the shape of a frightened skinny youth.

'Any questions?' the Reaper urged politely.

'Um,' Draco ventured, 'there was this bit a while ago when you said you wouldn't kill me?'

'Oh, no. I wouldn't do this, Draco Malfoy,' Death assured sinisterly. 'You'd be far more useful a servant alive.'

'I see,' Draco choked out. Through the wave of despair rushing anew into his mind, he sought solace in his typical morbid irony: "Look on the bright side: you'll finally quit working for the Dark Lord…"

'The whites go first,' the Reaper encouraged him, taking his seat. 'Are you ready?'

Draco stared into the pair of hollow bone-framed sockets. He felt as if he was staring down his own grave. There was no escape.

'Whenever you are,' he managed.

'Let the game begin,' his opponent announced.

Draco took a breath and moved the pawn that represented him an inch forth. A risky move, at least from the pawn's point of view, but it was the move Draco usually made in life to survive – being on the run was better than standing in one place waiting for death to come to you.

Death grinned. Chess wasn't quite like life.

Then again, in sufficiently fortunate circumstances, a pawn could always hope to switch places with a queen.

**X X X**

Back at Malfoy Manor, Wera was just changing into less formal clothes and preparing to worry for the rest of the night when she heard the scream from downstairs.

It had belonged to Lucius. In the context of the Malfoy family, this would not have been surprising, but in this case it had been a scream of pain. Wera jumped at the sound, abandoned her sweater and flew out of Draco's bedroom, expecting the worst.

To her horror, reality exceeded her expectations. She found the Malfoys in the dining hall – two of them, at least. Lucius and Narcissa were sprawled lifeless across the floor in what appeared to be a complex ritual circle. Traces of blood and ashes surrounded them. Wera gasped; then, trying not to panic, rushed over to the bodies to check them for a pulse. Finding one was relieving enough, but it couldn't balance out the terror that followed the immediate undeniable realization that the most important of all three Malfoys to her was missing.

Forcing proper breathing on herself to calm down, Wera looked desperately around the room for a solution, or, if anything, an explanation. The dining hall stank of a recent fire; drying blood stained the floor here and there. What was going on? Wera's eyes darted along the outlines of the circle and there, trembling lightly in the scattering magical field of the ritual, lay a seemingly ordinary piece of parchment. The girl picked it up, hand shaking. Her lips soundlessly pronounced "the sword of Death" as she traced the lines with a frantic stare. It was all in there: how to perform the ritual, how to pay the toll required, how to breach the border between the human world and the extracelestial dimension… And even though the facts presented on the sheet were clear as day, whoever had put the notes down still believed that it was worth a shot… Merlin, they'd written it as if it was a good idea! Who could be reckless, mad or desperate enough to try and claim the sword of Death?

The answer to this question was so clear it practically made it rhetorical. Why, of course… The Dark Lord. The only person who would risk anything for the sake of immortality. So that was what Draco's mission was about…

…and Draco was the central figure in it, for he alone of all of Voldemort's surviving supporters possessed the payment necessary for the ritual to work: young blood… Oh, the Dark Lord had thought it out so well! Sacrifice the young blood… to make your own blood young forever…

Wera's trembling fingers dropped the parchment to the floor. She bent down and picked up the wand that lay beside Naricssa's motionless hand. The girl swallowed hard and, with a heavy heart, sliced the palm of her own hand open with a spell. Then, she stepped into the ritual circle.

'Draco, Draco,' she uttered with a sigh as her blood trickled down the floor within the ring, 'Tom Sawyer never got into _that_ much trouble.'

Then, her silhouette melted into the nothingness as the spell of the ritual engulfed her. It was hungry for blood.

**X X X**

Meanwhile, things in the underworld weren't going well for Draco Malfoy.

He had to hand it to himself, he had a talent for winning with great difficulty and losing embarrassingly fast. Out of the two, so far things were leaning towards the latter.

He had lost most of his major chess pieces to the black army, while Death's soldiers themselves were untouched. That is to say, "lost" was a bit of an understatement: Draco had spent most of his time hiding behind one chess piece or the other to preserve the life of his own pawn, which was a truly remarkable example of how not to play chess. As a result, throughout the past five minutes he had been continuously cornered by the Reaper's pieces. His nerves were a mess; his head wasn't in the game anymore. It wasn't that he was terrible at chess. Draco bitterly realized that, even if he was the greatest chess player alive, it wouldn't make a difference against an opponent like Death. He couldn't hope to win, no matter what. Both he and the Reaper were aware of that.

His eyes kept fleeing to the pale metallic shimmer on the ground not far from the platform: the sword that Death had carelessly left lying there, possibly because he doubted that even Draco was daft enough to try to snatch it a second time. Well, he had certainly overestimated Draco Malfoy.

Oh, Merlin, Draco was thinking, if only he could have Death distracted for a single second… The sword seemed so far away – and yet so close…

'Check,' Death announced, slightly disappointed with the quality of the resistance.

'What?' Draco stammered. 'Oh, right… right. Just a moment.' He drew his fingers through his hair and had his king retreat diagonally. Bloody rules! Who knew he was supposed to watch over the king too?

'Check,' Death declared a second time before the thief had even drawn a breath.

'Alright. Alright,' Draco moaned. 'Let me think…'

He made his move mechanically, completely focused on the sword in the distance. If only he could spot an emotion running through the Reaper's face, anything he could use to his advantage…

'Check,' Death reminded, almost yawning. Hopelessly, Draco examined the board. He wasn't left with many ways out, and if he didn't change his tactics, he knew Death's next announcement would be "Checkmate". With a sigh, he drew his hand over the head of his pawn and hesitated. Only by sacrificing it could he protect his king. Either way, he would lose.

'Well?' Death insisted with a hint of irritation.

Draco's mind was a slate wiped clean with terror. All that consumed it was the blind, wild, frantic desire to survive.

"Aw well," he said to himself hollowly, "if all is lost anyway, you might as well…"

With a single movement so abrupt it surprised Draco no less than Death himself, the young man sprang up and jerked the slab aside, knocking various chess pieces off the board. A dozen tiny soldiers scattered on the ground. Draco darted off his seat, took the distance to the sword in a leap and hurled himself towards the weapon with a scream…

…and he froze in mid-air, as though he was caught in a web of cold hard atmosphere.

'Oh, no you don't!' Death bellowed eerily behind his back, while he was trying in vain to develop the ability to swim through air. 'You upset me, Draco Malfoy. _Nobody_ cheats in a game of chess with me! Where is the honor in this? How could you decide to act so childishly?'

'No… no…' Draco renewed his whimpering, clawing across the void for the sword… but the sword had gone. It its place, a hole tore through the fabric of the atmosphere. Like a tornado drawing closer, it expanded fiercely right before the thief's widening eyes…

'No! NO!' Draco screamed with greater vigor. 'PLEASE!'

'There will be no forgiveness, Draco Malfoy!' Death's voice rang through the ever louder hiss of the vacuum. 'Just like your son, you never think about the consequences! You are but a child, stuck in its childish ways! Well, then, have fun, Draco Malfoy, in a time you can never grow out of, and may your young blood never find peace! This is what you get for going against time! I condemn you to losing everything time has given you!'

With these words, he waved a hand the thief's way and thus cut an invisible bond, without a last word, without a scream or even a last-minute complaint, Draco Malfoy was sucked into the roaring portal and disappeared.

The game was lost. The pawn had fallen.

And it was just then that the queen arrived in its place.

In an eruption of bright winding flames, Wera Lynson was thrown into the afterlife dimension.

'Which was did he go?' she fired, breathless, tousled and noticeably underdressed, scrambling to her feet.

Death stared at her in utter bewilderment. Wera waited for a reply for less than a moment. She examined the Reaper quickly; then, her eyes found the portal still flickering in mid-air. 'Never mind, I'll just –'

'Where do you think you're going?' Death snarled, raising an implacable hand towards her. 'You're not leaving his place until I decide so!'

Entangling her into a snare of darkness, he lifted the girl's body off the ground and shot it through the air towards the stone platform. Wera fell hard on the chair Draco had just occupied.

'Who do you kids think you are?' the Reaper's voice shook the walls of his headquarters. 'I am the Grim Reaper! I reign over all that is, was, or ever will be flesh – and I demand some respect! You finish this right now, do you hear me? You are the mother –'

'What mother?' Wera interrupted bluntly, but was quickly silenced.

'– so _you_ will finish this game!' Death commanded ferociously, and at his glare all the fallen chess pieces ascended from the floor and restored their former places on the chessboard. 'Your lover started a game of chess with me, and you will finish it if you ever want to leave!'

Wera made an effort to clear her mind and evaluate the situation. 'He hasn't left me much to play with, I see…'

'Well, for his sake,' the Reaper hissed, 'let's hope you're a better chess player than he is.'

Wera was a better chess player than Draco (who wasn't?), but she knew well enough she was no match for Death. Right now, the only thing that kept her from losing her head was the flaring thought that she was here to rescue Draco – and this meant she had no time to waste on games. This wasn't a game of chess, not really. It was a battle of wits.

'Checkmate,' she proclaimed after a moment's contemplation.

'What?' Death snapped, his patience wearing thinner by the second.

'Checkmate,' the girl repeated blankly. 'Will you let me go now?'

Death snapped his fingers – in his case, an easy task, – and yelled:

'There is no checkmate! We haven't even started playing yet!'

Wera produced the all-knowing smile of every bookworm in history that had the capacity of getting on anyone's nerves.

'True, but with the next move I make, I will take your king.'

'This is impossible!' Death protested fiercely. 'I am Death, you foolish little girl! I've seen the past, the present and the future! I know every possible move, maneuver and configuration that ever existed in chess! There is no such move as the one you speak of!'

'Oh, there is,' Wera insisted peacefully, struggling not to start shaking. 'I bet there's one existing move you haven't taken into consideration.'

'And what is it, then?' the Reaper roared. 'Show me this ingenious move of yours!'

'As you wish,' Wera agreed. For a short while, she did nothing. Then, in an instant, she flung herself over the chessboard, snatched the piece of the king from Death's side of the board, took a leap into the distance and – because she was well aware that distance was only relative in this dimension – landed right into the portal Draco had vanished in. it closed with satisfaction over her: its thirst for young blood was saturated.

Death bellowed chillingly at the close, but was unable to change a thing. He couldn't go where young blood could. He was older than time.


	3. Chapter 3: Old School

Draco fell flat on a floor cold and hard yet significantly friendlier than the one at Death's headquarters. Sunlight stung his eyes and its warmth would have reached his body if he wasn't – as he quickly came to realize – soaked in water from head to toe. He stood up with a series of moans and wretched splashes. Looking around, he discovered he appeared to be in a bathroom. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, his memory informed him promptly. How could he forget the place he'd spent the worst moments of his teenage years in?

Besides, there was no mistaking that bespectacled face: half-miserable, half-curious, and, of course, silver through and through. Moaning Myrtle swam out of the door of the nearest cubicle and ogled Draco with endless interest.

'Hey, Myrtle,' Draco greeted wearily. 'Am I dead too?'

Myrtle's expression changed in an instant.

'Very funny,' she fired back crossly. 'Regrettably, you're not… but I hope this changes soon!'

With this cheerful wish, the ghost girl put on her typical frown and floated away to the other side of the bathroom.

'Wait!' Draco called, slightly taken aback. 'Come on now, Myrtle, is that a way to treat an old friend?'

Myrtle stopped in mid-air, eyed him disdainfully over her shoulder.

'Friend?' she sneered. 'I've never seen you before in my life!'

Draco shifted in his soggy clothes and sighed. That's just some women for you, he thought – you spend months crying on their shoulder (if metaphorically, in Myrtle's case) and in the end they act like they don't know you.

It could be worse, he decided at last. He could be dead – and he clearly wasn't, since he had just received a ghost's expert opinion on the subject. Somehow, he had got away with the inevitable…

He shuffled idly about the bathroom, dripping water every step of the way. All in all, he felt content. It wasn't in a Malfoy's nature to ask oneself questions. There was always the risk of getting answers.

'You're still here?' Moaning Myrtle hissed offendedly when he approached. Yes, Draco thought in a sudden rush of pride, he was. He was here, and he was alright. Hopefully, his parents were alright too. Surely the spell had not consumed them – it was young blood it longed for, after all. Now, he just had to go back home and tell everyone the spell hadn't worked. He'd worry about working out the details with the Dark Lord later. Right now, it sufficed to know that he was here at Hogwarts – a fairly safe and familiar place – and he was alive.

The problem with people is, they always remember to determine _where_ they are, but hardly anyone bothers to wonder _when_.

'Yeah,' he replied absently to Myrtle's question. The ghost girl scoffed. Still, after a short inner battle with her bitterness, her curiosity prevailed:

'Where did you come from, anyway?'

'I, er,' Draco began uncertainly. Moaning Myrtle would inevitably take the sincere answer to this question as a personal insult.

'This is a girl's lavatory,' the girl reminded sourly. 'Although,' she added, 'hardly anyone cares these days.'

'What do you mean?' Draco inquired matter-of-factly. In response, Myrtle nodded towards the cubicle on her left.

Only now did Draco realize they weren't alone. There was someone in the cubicle – more than one person, judging by the muffled voices coming from it, and, judging by the _sound_ of the voices, the occupants seemed to be engaged in an activity that was better suited for a bed, or at least a broomstick closet.

'They seem to be quite busy in there,' Draco commented, lowering his voice. Myrtle shrugged, torn between disgust and amusement.

'The boy's a Slytherin,' she whispered conspiratorially. 'They always are.'

Indeed, from the edge of the cubicle, a tie in green and silver hung. The boy, whoever the lucky Slytherin was, had apparently decided the top of his uniform would get in the way of his romantic endeavors and had flung it over the cubicle wall. Draco stared at the shirt and tie with nostalgia and a little bit of envy. They looked so clean and dry next to his drenched clothes coming straight back from the underworld…

'Er, I'll just –' he began, sidling innocently towards the occupied cubicle.

He went over to it and gently snatched the unknown Slytherin's clothes. Moaning Myrtle seemed to approve.

'I don't think he'll be needing them anytime soon,' she smirked, and waited impatiently for Malfoy's next move. Draco changed quickly in front of her, to Myrtle's infinite delight, getting rid of most of his soaked clothes. When he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he instantly felt better. Now this was the real Draco Malfoy, the one from back in the days before life had got so complicated. Smiling at himself in the bathroom mirror, he could almost imagine he actually looked younger.

Moaning Myrtle saw him off with a wistful sigh and retreated glumly to her cubicle. Some time after Draco had left the bathroom (soundlessly, for a true Malfoy could sneak even across a flooded floor), the following conversation was heard from the cubicle of the two young lovers:

'What the… hey! Who took my clothes! I'm sure they were here moments ago!'

'What? They might have fallen down to the floor…'

'They're not here! Someone must have taken them!'

'Don't be ridiculous. It's impossible for a ghost to steal your clothes. And no one ever goes in here…'

'No, I'm telling you, I thought I heard a voice… Can you think of anyone who'd steal my clothes?'

'I dunno… your brother, perhaps... or someone from the team. Everyone teases you, Regulus, how should I know?'

As it was previously mentioned, sometimes "when" was a question far more important than "where".

**X X X **

Draco strode out of the castle and went out into the Hogwarts grounds. A wave of relief poured over him like a hot shower. Everything around him seemed so peaceful, so right… Hogwarts was just like he remembered it, only better, after all these years. No one appeared to notice him. No one was passing him by sniggering or hissing; no one was eyeing him with pity, the way those bastards from the Ministry always did… Several Ravenclaw girls walked past him chatting, and neither of them muttered: "That's Draco Malfoy. I hear he used to be a Death Eater, and his entire family are nutters. Stay away from that mess." No, to them, he was just a fellow student, wearing the Hogwarts uniform, going about his business. He felt at ease among people, for the first time in over six years. He didn't feel like leaving right away. Perhaps he might just sneak into the dungeons and steal a souvenir or two for Wera from the Slytherin common room…

'Alright, everyone! Classes are starting! Back inside, all of you!' a firm voice called impatiently in the distance. Ah, Draco thought distractedly, McGonagall. It seemed the old bat was still teaching. Slowly, on a long-forgotten instinct, he dragged his feet back towards the castle. The weather was splendid, he was feeling great, and, most of all, he was alive. He'd soon go to Wera with a gift and everything would be alright again, if only for a day. Today was a day no one could ruin for him…

Someone bumped into him in a hurry at the front gate. Correction, Draco estimated a moment later, someone knocked him aside at the front gate, for the bump was too rough to be unintentional. Malfoy could easily make the difference, for he'd done the latter countless times.

'Piss off, Potter,' he snarled mechanically at the passing figure.

Then, when his own words reached his brain, he froze. The figure did the same.

Draco spun around to his feet to face the audacious student.

'Potter?!' he exclaimed.

'What did you say?' the student shouted.

Malfoy was dumbstruck. It couldn't be. Potter was no longer at Hogwarts; he was studying to be an auror at the Ministry, right?

Wait a second, Draco's common sense cut in, this isn't Potter. There was the hair, the glasses, and all of the bugger's loathsome features from their school days… but there was something wrong with the look and the expression, and most importantly, there was no scar…

'I asked you a question,' the boy spat out in Draco's face. '_What_ did you say to me?'

'Never mind,' Draco settled for hissing in return. 'I thought you were… someone else.'

'No, no, that's me,' the student fired hotly. 'I'm Potter, there's no mistake. So if you've got something to say to me, say it to my face!'

If it was true that all great revelations came slowly, then Draco Malfoy wasn't aware of that tendency. The epiphany hit _him_ so hard he felt he had to hold on to something in order not to lose his balance – but he didn't, since the only thing he could hold on to around him was disconcertingly Potter-shaped.

He had been wrong… and yet he had been right. This _was_ Potter… not _Harry_ Potter, no – but it was indeed Potter. Judging by the way the boy acted, he could be no other than James, the Chosen One's father… and judging by Draco's recent close encounter with Death, he, Draco, was the one that didn't fit into the picture. The episode with Myrtle made perfect sense now, and so did the Reaper's last words before Draco had dropped down that portal. He had been sent back in time… an entire _generation_ back in time…

…which was indeed extremely upsetting… but not half as upsetting for a Malfoy as being faced with a Potter.

'Well, for starters,' Draco drawled, unable to ignore a verbal challenge, 'you've got a nasty twitch in the shoulder there, shoving it into people's chests and what not. You should be careful with it – unless you want to have it broken…'

'Oh, yeah?' James Potter sneered. 'Is that a threat, you slimy little –'

But Draco was in his element. 'I hadn't finished. May I also note on the fact that the condition of your hair is revolting, and I won't even comment on the way you wear your uniform, it's sure to make your mother cry…'

Up until today, James Potter had been used to resolving arguments with charisma, wits and magic, and when the first two failed, he resorted to the third. He drew out his wand, to Draco's astonishment, and prepared to voice out a hex –

'What do you two think you're doing?' someone shouted in the youths' ears so abruptly it made them both jump. It turned out to be McGonagall; she had arrived at the scene as fast as though she had apparated. 'Shame on you, Potter, is that a way for a Head Boy to behave? Detention after classes for both of you! And I will _walk_ you two to class to ensure that you do not kill each other on the way!'

As he was dragged by the collar by McGonagall along the Hogwarts corridors, a dozen feelings were colliding in Draco's soul. Concern was the first of them, for he seemed to be stuck outside his time. But he was not a boy anymore; like Wera had said, he could find a way out of every tricky situation – so he would sort this out, he swore to himself, and when he did, he'd have one hell of a story to tell his girlfriend. His worry, on the other hand, was overshadowed by anger, the kind that would rise by default within him every time he was faced with Potter… but there was also something else, some sort of strange, twisted satisfaction that came with the realization of the recent turn of events. These were – literally – the old school days of Hogwarts… and yet, for some reason, this thought made him feel unbelievably young. There was no Dark Lord breathing down his neck, no manic overprotective parents tracing his every step, and…

…oh, man, he'd get to be a student again! With Potter gone (the Chosen One, not that pathetic excuse for a bully strutting beside him), he could have a blast…

"Well," Draco grinned happily to himself as he was being mercilessly led to class, "looks like I'm back in the game."

If only Wera could see him now…

**X X X**

At about that time Wera was thrown out of the temporal portal and landed on her knees and elbows in a vast dusty room. Perhaps she would have felt some relief had she known that she could have, like Draco, ended up in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Needless to say, a girl appearing out of thin air wearing nothing but a brassiere and a pair of jeans wasn't something that happened in Myrtle's bathroom every day, and Myrtle herself would mercilessly ensure that the occurrence wasn't forgotten for months. Fortunately, however, Wera found herself to be in the Room of Requirement: the one place that meant the most to her in all of Hogwarts. She scrambled up to her feet and looked fiercely around, driven half mad with worry, which was almost instantly replaced with rage.

The past ten minutes had not been the best in her life. Anger rising, she squeezed the piece she'd snatched from Death's chessboard 'till her fingers started aching. She'd just made a very near escape from the clutches of the Grim Reaper – and this thought didn't make her feel any better in the slightest. In the end, whose fault was that? The Dark Lord was the first answer to come to mind, but when you thought about it… was the Malfoy family really _that_ insane? Draco might not have realized the risk he was taking, but surely his parents did? If so, why would they put their son's life on the line along with theirs instead of trying to protect him somehow? What were they thinking, signing him up to share their deadly occupation in the first place? And why did they keep a draft on how to steal Death's sword at home?

Whoever was irresponsible enough to even attempt to perform such a dark ritual was certainly unfit to raise a child. Seething with fury, Wera decided to have a serious talk with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy the very next time she saw them.

But all the damage had already been done and she was left with no option but to go find Draco, even though he was nowhere to be seen. The girl tried praying hard for the Room of Requirement to give her a pointer or a hint as to where Malfoy Jr may currently be, but to no avail. She tried every possible approach with the Room, but nothing about it changed. Finally, for the time being, she settled for asking it for a disguise in which she could go by unnoticed. In the end, the Room reacted to her last request.

It wasn't exactly what Wera had expected. Turning to the Room for a disguise, she had hoped for something along the lines of an invisibility cloak. Instead, the enchanted place provided her with a fairly fitting Gryffindor uniform.

Wera shook her head in disappointment, but accepted what she had been given anyway. 'It's always got to be Gryffindor,' she groaned, putting on the new set of clothes in haste. 'Can't I be allowed a Slytherin uniform for one –'

She broke off in an instant upon seeing the shadow behind a distant bookshelf move. On instinct, she ducked behind an old moth-eaten armchair and waited, holding her breath. The Room of Requirement could be home to anything…

The shadow stretched and evolved into the silhouette of a young blond man about Draco's age. He stepped into the dim light of the Room, pressed an index to his lips and – to Wera's utter horror – stared straight into the battered armchair.

'I won't tell if you don't,' he whispered quietly, but clear enough for her to hear.

Wera froze and her grip desperately tightened around the tiny black chess piece in her hand, the dark souvenir she had returned from the underworld with. She hesitated, wondering whether to attack (if the king's piece could serve as a weapon at all), run or scream. The creepily smiling blond man was approaching…

'When have I ever?' another voice rang from in front of the armchair and nearly caused Wera to blow her cover. Still, the interference saved her just in time: she had not been seen, as she'd thought at first. Apparently, the man had addressed someone else.

A second shadow shifted into position before her. A slightly shorter figure approached that of the smiling man. In the scarce daylight oozing through the Room's windows, Wera noticed it was of a boy several years younger. He had shoulder-long black hair, a sickly complexion and a nose so crooked it could make a plastic surgeon cry. There was no mistaking these features. This was no other than Snape, Wera's former (in every possible sense of the word) Potions professor.

Wera stifled a gasp: the Snape a few feet away from her could not be more than seventeen. Not again, the girl groaned mentally, realizing she had accidentally travelled back in time once more, only this time way further back than the first. This could only mean trouble… and if the boy standing in front of the armchair was Snape, then the young man extending a hand for a handshake at him had to be –

'Good to see you, Lucius,' Snape muttered curtly. Lucius nodded and his smirk became a grin.

'You too. Did anyone follow you?'

'No,' Snape assured. 'I checked the place just a minute ago.'

'Good,' Lucius estimated, avidly content.

Wera was curled motionless behind the armchair, struggling not to make a sound. "Clearly, the serious talk with Draco's parents will have to wait," she thought, "foranother twenty-five years! Good heavens, look at him, wearing his hair in a ponytail, patronizing Snape like he's all that! That pseudo-Victorian bow was out-of-date even back then…"

'Are the others coming?' Snape inquired, looking up at Lucius with poorly concealed admiration. Wera barely restrained herself from snorting.

'All in due time,' Lucius replied, lowering his voice. All of a sudden, he glanced around with suspicion. Wera could tell he sensed, if not her presence, then at least that something wasn't right. 'Come on now, let's get out of here.'

'I hope you've brought what I sent you for,' Snape uttered somewhat imploringly as he was trying to catch up with his friend's stride on their way out of the Room. 'Who's coming this time?'

'Most of the regulars. Oh, and your favorite one, of course…'

'Oh, no,' Snape muttered. Lucius eyed him disapprovingly and hastened his step.

'Quiet down, will you? I've got a bad feeling about this place…'

'But I just made sure it was clear –'

'Shh!'

The two youths left the Room as quickly as possible. Wera tucked the chess piece into her new uniform, snuck out of her hiding place and followed them soundlessly, inexplicably concerned.

Snape and Lucius took a turn into a narrow corridor, whispering feverishly. Forced to maintain a distance, Wera found it harder to discern their words now. She could make out no more than:

'…I've got to go… Charms class.'

'Right. We'll be… meet us after classes... Don't be late… careful.'

After this brief exchange of muffled words, Lucius dissolved into the shadow of a nearby post, and Snape proceeded on his way to Charms, looking a tad more miserable than before. Lucius' disappearance facilitated Wera's creeping a great deal. Snape wasn't as vigilant (quite unlike the Snape she knew); he was consumed in his thoughts, and none of them seemed to be all too cheerful. Afraid to produce a sound, the girl sensed that she was making too much silence, but Snape didn't appear to notice. He only suddenly winced when he heard ringing laughter along the corridor to Charms. Mentally, Wera sighed in agreement: as a student, she had never been fond of crowds, either. Now, Draco, he was the exact opposite of this; if there was a crowd, he was sure to be in the middle of it…

…which was why Wera followed Snape through the door of Professor Flitwick's office into Charms class, a generation before her time. She sat at a vacant desk in the back of the classroom without causing a single head to turn in her direction. Wera had the gift (which was more of a curse, really) of passing unnoticed, especially in a classroom. Flitwick didn't even ask for her name.

She glanced ahead to examine the interior for a sign of Draco. Alas, she caught not a glimpse of him. Instead, she saw so much more…

**X X X**

Draco was wholeheartedly amused. He was sitting next to Harry Potter's teenage father in McGonagall's office listening to the Transfiguration professor shout at them both. Who'd know he'd one day rejoice at the sound of McGonagall's outraged scolding? He was barely managing not to burst out laughing. It was such an experience, reliving everything the way it had once been. McGonagall, despite clearly at the beginning of her teaching career, confronted the youths with a downpour of accusations in a voice at which first-year Draco would have shaken like a leaf.

'…so that's detention for you, Potter; I am appalled at your behavior, and to think the Headmaster considers you to be a model student,' she seethed. 'And detention to you too, because I saw you _trying_ to start a fight… Oh, yes, and points will be taken from both Slytherin and Gryffindor house – if you keep it that way, neither will be awarded the Cup this year… Names?'

'Come on, McGonagall, you know my name,' James protested lazily.

'You missed a "Professor" there somewhere,' muttered McGonagall, bent over the papers on her desk. 'James Potter, as usual… and you are?'

'What?' Draco blinked at the teacher in dreamy confusion.

'Do you find your situation entertaining, mister?'

'No… no… not at all,' Malfoy lied. McGonagall's eyes narrowed.

'Then would you be so kind as to give me your name?'

The question drained Draco's amusement in an instant. He weighed all possible answers in his head.

'Tom Sawyer,' he blurted out the first fitting option that came to mind. McGonagall raised a skeptical eyebrow.

'I don't recall ever seeing you on the student list,' she articulated sternly, 'or in class, as a matter of fact.'

He had to hand it to her, McGonagall had a gift for spotting a student's weaknesses. But Draco's mouth was capable of generating twenty lies per second.

'That's because I'm new here, Professor,' he replied promptly. 'My parents, you see, they're, er...' he had to swallow his pride to pronounce that one, '…muggles, as you can probably tell by the sound of my name… and I wasn't aware of being a wizard at first…'

A faint blush fled through Draco's cheeks, which, in McGonagall's eyes, probably added some credibility to his story. Beside him, James stifled a cackle. "Just wait 'till we leave here, Potter," Draco thought, "and I'll wipe that bloody smirk off your face for good…"

'In this case,' retorted McGonagall, 'you should have received your Hogwarts letter at the age of eleven.'

Without even consulting his brain, Draco's lips had a lie to utter at the ready. 'My parents moved to Germany when I was six, I was supposed to graduate Durmstrang, but – that is, I couldn't go through with it. After my parents' demise, I dropped out and decided to finish my education at a proper school, with less of an emphasis on the Dark Arts…'

McGonagall's face was switching expressions by the second. Draco broke off, anxiously waiting for a reaction. If this was the McGonagall he knew, she'd initiate a thorough research on the matter, consult the Durmstrang headmaster immediately and have Draco discovered and kicked out before he could get halfway through his first class. Then again, these were the old days, and McGonagall seemed almost unnaturally young…

'I shall take this matter to Headmaster Dumbledore,' she concluded stiffly. 'He ought to already be informed of your situation, so your fate lies in his hands…'

'When will I be able to hear of his decision on my case?' Draco inquired, pretending to be at least remotely interested in his fate.

'Unfortunately, the Headmaster is currently away on confidential business,' said the professor and, mistaking the relief written on Draco's face for hopelessness, added: 'You will be allowed to stay at Hogwarts for the time being, provided you keep in mind that all dark magic practices that may be tolerated at Durmstrang are strictly prohibited here. I won't lie to you, Sawyer – I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you. Normally, we do not encourage student transfer at Hogwarts, and even if Dumbledore decides otherwise in your case, you shall have to do better than your best to prove yourself worthy of graduating Hogwarts like everybody else here. Personally, I wouldn't bet on your permanent stay.'

"That's alright," Draco replied mentally, "I only intend to stay long enough to get even with Potter."

Apparently, a similar idea had struck James' brain.

'But, please, McGonagall,' he began, 'I mean, Professor – I'm sure there's room at Hogwarts for a poor little orphan boy like Sawyer…'

"If only your son could hear you now, Potter."

'Very well,' McGonagall conceded at last. 'For now, you can join the class that corresponds to your age, Sawyer. How old are you – sixteen? Seventeen?'

Draco raised an eyebrow at the question, but safely went for seventeen. Something wasn't right here: surely Professor McGonagall could tell he was in his twenties, unless… unless he wasn't? Heart pounding, Draco secretly pulled up his left sleeve under the brim of McGonagall's desk, to discover, to his dismay, nothing but pure white skin all the way to the elbow.

He had changed too…

'…and, for goodness' sake, boy, where did you get that uniform?' the teacher's voice rattled angrily on. 'You need to be _sorted_ before you can wear one… provided I find the time for this later today… Sawyer, will you tell me _what_ it is about my words you find so amusing?'

'Oh, nothing… nothing, Professor.'

'Just as I thought,' McGonagall frowned. 'Come on, off to Charms class, both of you! Potter, show the new student the way as Head Boy, will you? And remember, I'll _know_ if you try anything –'

'Yes, yes, McGonagall,' James yawned and left his seat wearily, nodding at Draco, who couldn't believe his luck, to follow.

'Now, Sawyer,' he turned to his newly established rival when they were outside Professor Flitwick's office, 'I don't really know what your problem is, but if you keep up that attitude of yours, you won't be making many friends here.'

'Oh, I wouldn't worry about this, Potter,' Draco sneered jovially in response, 'with friends like you, who needs enemies?'

'Glad you got this right, at least,' James retorted. 'This isn't a threat, mate, don't get me wrong. You'll see soon enough that if you choose to go against me, you won't find many people backing your side.'

Draco shrugged and followed the Gryffindor through the door to Charms class. He simply couldn't take James Potter seriously – talking to him was like talking to his eleven-year-old self. It would all be way too easy. It was –

The thoughts paused in his head as he cast a quick glance about the classroom.

**X X X**

There was Sirius Black. And Lily Evans. And Severus Snape. And Remus Lupin. And Peter Pettigrew. There were all the major characters from the pre-war years of Hogwarts that Wera had ever heard of. There was Lily Evans over there, looking dignified and beautiful as she scribbled down notes with fierce diligence. There was Severus Snape, silent and somber in his seat and indisputably winning the trying-to-be-invisible championship, with Remus Lupin coming as a close second several desks ahead. Beside Lupin, there was Pettigrew, constantly dropping wayward notes under their desk. Finally, there was Sirius Black, stretched over two seats in front of them, posing as this year's Hogwarts top male model. When James entered the classroom, he raised eyebrows reproachfully at him, but his stare had not half the force of Lily's.

'Where were you?' she whispered angrily in the direction of James' neck when he elbowed his way into the seat Sirius was refusing to vacate. 'The class started fifteen minutes ago!'

'It's alright,' James lied out of the corner of his mouth, 'I had to show a new student on his way to class.'

'What? Are you sure you didn't get into trouble again?'

'It's alright, I swear. McGonagall asked me to – as Head Boy, you know.'

Pettigrew giggled idly from behind his back. Sirius hushed him down and continued to torment the chair he was rocking on.

Wera watched the scene in astonishment. The entire classroom was overflowing with unspoken thoughts and vigorous muffled communication. There were so many faces she was surprised to see… especially that of Draco Malfoy.

Draco seemed equally surprised to see her when he sidled into the classroom after James. He couldn't think of anything better to do, so he just smiled uncertainly in her direction. Wera responded to his smile with the hand gesture generally used to illustrate beheading.

Not the slightest bit discouraged, Draco headed to her desk and ventured to shift into the seat beside her.

'Over my dead body,' Wera articulated soundlessly.

Her boyfriend settled for sitting in front of her, if only just to appease her.

'Wow,' he whispered without further delay, 'I didn't think I'd see you here, it's so amaz–'

'– horrible!' Wera finished with an enraged hiss. 'Do you even realize what deep trouble we're in? Look at what's going on around you! Look at _you_! We could be stuck here forever! And you didn't even _tell_ me!'

Draco attempted to appear a little bit smaller, which, given that he was currently seventeen, didn't feel like a very hard task to accomplish.

'I didn't want to worry you,' he explained imploringly. 'I was doing it for our own good, I just –'

'You just what?' Wera's eyes were casting dangerous sparks. 'You're completely nuts, that's what you are! Your whole family is! Don't you see this is Death's punishment? Do you even know what's going on here? Do you know I saw your father just minutes ago?'

'My father?' Draco's face shone alight with curiosity. 'What does he look like?'

Wera rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. 'Like you with a ponytail, you idiot! I saw him sneaking on Hogwarts territory, and he didn't exactly look like a student! Something bad is afoot here, Draco, something regarding You-Know-Who and his You-Know-Whats!'

'The Death Eaters?' Draco whispered bluntly.

Wera thought that, for a moment, she saw Snape shift at a nearby desk.

'Just… shut up, okay? We're drawing too much attention to ourselves. We'll talk after the class is over.'

The talk after classes, as Draco had expected, turned out to be more of a monologue. After patiently waiting for Charms class to end, Wera discreetly dragged her boyfriend out of the classroom and pressed him ruthlessly against a nearby post.

'Alright,' she began her indignant speech, 'I don't know about you, but I don't intend on being stuck in this time forever. I hope this will be of some use,' she added, producing the black king's piece she had stolen, 'at least as a clue on how to undo what we – what your crazy family has done… If we can, that is; who knows how much we've altered the course of time by now, and if we can ever return to our time the way it was at all. My first thought was to find a way to get to the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry and try to work things out there somehow, but then I saw Lucius and… well, I just have the feeling we have to see what's going on. Death may have a trick up his sleeve… And don't look at me like that,' the girl scolded the stupidly smiling at her Malfoy, 'think! This is serious, Draco! Honestly, I can't believe you can be so careless after all that's happened! After all, it's _your_ family we're talking about! Any plans?'

Draco turned the question over in his head.

'Well,' he began, 'for now, I have to get sorted, I also have to report to McGonagall's office to serve detention, and I think I might apply for a substitute position at the Slytherin Quidditch team, that's sure to piss the hell out of Pot–'

'What?!' Wera was as incredulous as she was outraged. 'Did your brain manage to process a single word of what I just said?'

'Aw, come on, mudblood,' Draco sighed fondly in response, 'I just went to meet the Reaper and came back. Aren't you at least a little glad to see me?'

Wera blinked at him, suddenly left speechless. Her expression gradually softened. She took a breath to utter an apology, but was interrupted:

'It's not very polite to call a girl a mudblood,' a quiet voice came from behind her back.

'I'll call her whatever I want,' Draco snapped on instinct, and waved the unfortunate Snape away. 'Piss off!'

'I,' Wera began, staring awkwardly at her boyfriend. 'I _am_ glad to see you,' she went on in a meeker voice. 'We were lucky this time, you know. If I hadn't gone after you –'

'But you did,' Draco reminded her soothingly. 'You always do.'

A smile crept up Wera's face, almost against her will.

'How can I not,' she looked up at him with glistening eyes, 'when you always put yourself in danger, you little –'

Draco silenced her with a kiss to interrupt her rising tears. As he drew her closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and her relief poured over him in waves from her body. They were alive and they were together, that was all that mattered in this moment of sincerity and warmth they were locked in, and the moment, fleeting as it was, was theirs and theirs alone…

'I'm sorry… I'm sorry,' Draco whispered, fingers buried in the girl's dark hair.

'I thought I'd lost you,' Wera mumbled, reluctant to let the moment pass. 'If I hadn't found you, I'd –'

Alas, she was interrupted again.

'Snogging the enemy, are we now?' James Potter had approached the scene. He lazily pointed his wand at Wera's tie, and then at Draco's. 'My, my… you don't waste time, do you now, Sawyer? I really ought to take ten points from Slytherin on account of you dishonoring an innocent Gryffindor girl…'

It was hard to tell whether it was Wera or Draco that was more upset with the interruption of the moment.

'Dishonoring?' Draco fired.

'Gryffindor?' Wera spat out with disgust, and added, after a moment's contemplation: '_Innocent_?!'

'That's two grave insults you've just addressed my lady with, Potter,' Draco turned to the Head Boy matter-of-factly, 'and you're going to pay for them…'

'Me?' James sniggered. 'I overheard _you_ calling her something far worse moments ago. Isn't that right, Lily?'

Lily Evans, the Head Girl, instantly appeared by his side.

'James,' she pronounced in a calm voice that could make the word mean a thousand things, 'what's going on here?'

'Oh, nothing, Mrs Potter,' Draco hissed promptly. 'This is strictly between me, your husband and his future s–'

Wera nudged her boyfriend in the ribs just in time. Lily Evans raised an eyebrow. Then, slowly, her head turned to James:

'I thought you told me you hadn't got into any trouble.'

'I didn't,' James mumbled in his defense. 'There's no trouble.'

'Why not?' another voice echoed in the corridor, one slightly resembling a bark.

"Oh no," Draco thought, "here comes uncle Sirius."

'What's this, the animal rights committee?' he snapped at the gathering Gryffindor crew. 'Listen, Potter, why don't you take your blood-challenged girlfriend and your dog-loving friend and take at least one of them to a shelter or something?'

'_What_?' James shouted.

'James?' insisted Lily icily.

'What did he say?' Sirius snarled.

'Hey, what's happening?' called Pettigrew from behind.

'Not again,' Lupin's voice joined the dissatisfied choir.

'Never mind,' James announced out loud after a threatening pause. 'Nothing is happening. Come on, everyone; I'll have a word with Sawyer later.'

Compelled by Lily's pointed stare, he chose to retreat from the verbal battle. His confused friends followed the Head Boy and Girl along the corridor until they were all out of sight.

Draco was staring ahead with fierce satisfaction written on his face.

'You're the king of chaos, you know that,' Wera summed up the scene in a nutshell.

'Oh, trust me,' Draco replied, eyes gleaming, 'I haven't even started yet.'


End file.
